Work Text:
Douglas blinked awake for no reason that he could ascertain. Perhaps it was the light streaming through the crack in the curtains, or the slightly irritating ‘kuh-ROO-coo, kuh-ROO-coo’ of the woodpigeons that nested in the tree by his bedroom window. Wait. Their bedroom window. He still hadn’t got used to the presence of his new housemate.
At the thought of Martin, he rolled his head sideways and smiled at the sight of the captain, lying peacefully next to him, slack-mouthed in slumber. Martin always looked particularly youthful in sleep - the nascent creases at the edge of his eyes smoothed out, the forehead wrinkles that came with constantly striving for control brushed away. Douglas leant over and dropped a butterfly kiss on Martin’s cheek, causing him to stir but not awaken, before he slipped out of bed to make breakfast.
Douglas had only got halfway through making the porridge that Martin liked when the man himself appeared in the kitchen, tousle-haired and wearing only a pair of tracksuit bottoms slung low at his hips. Douglas held out a hand, but Martin ignored it and wandered straight over to give him a hug. Douglas kissed the top of his head. “You know,” he said, meditatively, relishing the warm, sleepy scent of the younger man, “my heart would last longer in this life if you’d stop making it stumble by walking in looking so... utterly delectable.”
Martin flushed and pushed himself away, looking embarrassed. “Sorry - I’ll go and put -”
“Don’t you dare,” Douglas commanded. “Here -” he passed the ladle to Martin - “you keep stirring this and I’ll get us some bowls.” Sidestepping Martin’s attempted swat at his behind, he rummaged until he’d located the required utensils. “Dish up.”
Martin spooned the porridge out for them both, then watched as Douglas added some cream and the remaining strawberries from their dessert the previous evening. He tucked in hungrily, and Douglas tugged the previous day’s paper over to flick through while Martin woke up a little more. Mornings had never been the time when Martin was at his most compos mentis.
One article absorbed Douglas’ attention completely, and it wasn’t until he felt Martin’s foot sliding between his bare ankles that he refocused. He looked up and smiled. “Hello, you,” he murmured, and took Martin’s hand. “Sleep well?”
Martin stretched, abdominal muscles flexing with his movement. Douglas licked his lips. “Like a log,” Martin pronounced, grinning at the lascivious expression Douglas was sure had appeared on his face. “And you?”
Douglas tried to concentrate his thoughts in a less base direction. “Perfectly.” He stood and carried their bowls to the dishwasher, dropping a kiss onto Martin’s head as he passed. “What plans have you for our day off, then?” He eyed Martin warily. “And if you say you have a van job, be aware that I will swat you - hard - with that newspaper.”
Martin laughed and got up, stepping over to embrace Douglas and slipping his hands inside his dressing gown. “No jobs today,” he said. “I thought - maybe we could watch a film?”
Douglas nodded approvingly. “Sounds ideal. I’ll just go and shower.”
“Don’t take all the hot water!” Martin called after him.
“No promises.”
An hour or two later and the two of them were curled cosily together on the sofa, watching a film that Verity had left behind on her last visit. Martin leant quietly into Douglas for most of the first half, but Douglas groaned inwardly as the protagonists headed to take a private flight to England.
“They couldn’t do that!” Martin’s scandalised tones made Douglas laugh.
“You know this is fiction, darling,” he reminded.
Martin twisted to look up at him. “But - but it would be so simple to get right!” he reasoned, crossly. “Just a few extra lines in the script to explain why they couldn’t pull that manoeuvre and that instead they should circle before landing -”
“During which time everyone in the cinema would be asleep.”
“I wouldn’t be!”
“Everyone except you, mon cher,” Douglas chuckled, and ran a thumb over Martin’s cheekbone, drawing a line from freckle to freckle.
Martin frowned. “But - but - they should get it right,” he insisted.
“You had no issue with the plausibility of a French gallery curator being a member of a secret society, or of a dead man leaving a treasure trail across Paris...” Douglas reminded him.
“But this is to do with flying -” Martin broke off and blushed, reading the laughter in Douglas’ expression.
Douglas grinned. “Am I going to have to make you hush?” he asked, leaning further over, so Martin’s head slipped into his lap.
“You can’t make me do anything,” Martin batted back, as the film chattered on, ignored in the background.
“Oh, can’t I?” Douglas pursed his lips in challenge. He leant further - further - until Martin closed his eyes for the kiss that was coming - and then -
“Argh!” Martin jerked and twisted, trying to escape Douglas’ hands. “Stop tickling!”
Douglas laughed and pushed his hands up underneath Martin’s t-shirt, tickling his ribs until Martin bucked himself almost off the sofa. At last, Douglas subsided, and tugged Martin back into a more secure position. To his surprise, though, Martin shifted and got up, turning round to glare at him.
“That does it,” the captain announced, clearly trying his best to look ferocious.
Douglas leant back, staring up insouciantly. “What?”
Martin knelt over him in one fluid movement, straddling Douglas’ lap. “You really are a pain in the arse.”
Douglas slid his hands up the backs of Martin’s thighs. He fondled Martin’s rear, grinning. “I could be more of a pain in the arse if I wanted...”
“Oh, shut up.” Martin bent and captured his mouth in a searing kiss, cupping Douglas’ jaw with fingers made possessive with longing.
Just as things got really heated - Douglas tipping Martin sideways, prowling over his prone form with a hungry growl - the doorbell rang. Douglas looked around with a groan.
“Ignore it.”
“I can’t, Martin, what if it’s important?”
“Please -” But Douglas had already stood and was heading to the hallway, leaving Martin to thump a frustrated fist into the cushions.
He heard Douglas speaking to someone, then the front door closing. Douglas reappeared clutching a package and wearing an excited grin. “What is it?”
Douglas sat back down, tearing into the parcel with the kind of enthusiasm Martin had previously only associated with his nephews at their birthday parties. “I ordered this last week - hoped it would arrive by today -”
Martin craned to see. The brown wrapping gave way under the force of Douglas’ scrabbling, revealing a colourful box. “Blokus?” Martin read from the label.
Douglas beamed. “It’s a brilliant game!” He brushed the wrapping aside. “As Arthur would say.”
Martin resigned himself to the inevitable. “You want to play?”
“You do?” Douglas didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ll love it.”
Martin sighed. “You’re determined to get me to love board games, aren’t you?”
“Well, if you won’t play me at Scrabble, or Trivial Pursuit -”
“I’ll play you anytime at Beat The Manuals...” Martin quirked an eyebrow slyly as Douglas began unpacking the game.
The FO shuddered. “Never again. Now, come on, it’s simple - you play two colours and I play the other two...”
Two hours later, Martin sloped into the kitchen to make lunch, Douglas following slightly abashedly. “Look, you nearly had me that last game -”
“Until you pipped me at the post. Again.” Martin fished the soup out of the fridge and set it to heat in the microwave.
“Oh, come now - you don’t want me to let you win, surely?” Douglas slid his arms round Martin’s waist from behind and kissed at his nape. He mused as Martin relaxed in his embrace. “Perhaps what you need to win... is sufficient incentive.”
“Incentive?” Martin twisted round and reached to encircle Douglas’ neck.
Douglas nodded. “Maybe... if I offered you a prize...?”
Martin made a suspicious face. “Such as?”
Grinning, Douglas nodded, and slipped a broad palm downwards to grope at Martin’s behind. “Such as... whoever wins next time... gets to choose what we do after that.” He squeezed Martin’s arse cheek meaningfully.
“Oh.” Martin’s eyes glazed and he pressed closer into Douglas at the suggestion. “Oh.”
“Yes.” Douglas stepped away as the microwave pinged. “Should make for a much more... interesting game.”
Martin grabbed his hand. “Let’s play.”
“But what about the soup?” Douglas was a little taken aback as Martin yanked at him.
“Sod the soup.” Martin looked back at him and smirked. “You wanted a competition. And a competition you shall have.” He tugged again at Douglas’ arm, simultaneously stretching so that his ragged t-shirt rode up to expose the hipbone he knew Douglas thought incoherently sexy.
Douglas’ mouth went dry and he found himself following Martin without protest. “Well, if sir has laid down the gauntlet,” he purred, “far be it from me not to.... grasp it.” He fitted his action to his words, to a slap and something close to a squeal from Martin.
“Douglas! You haven’t won yet!”
“On the contrary... I rather think I have.”